


Even dust was made to settle

by heartbreaksoul



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, but nothing is explicitly discussed, vague allusion to trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbreaksoul/pseuds/heartbreaksoul
Summary: “Are you drunk?” he asks bluntly.She looks steadily into his eyes, refusing to answer and the Master's white teeth gleam in the dark.“Now this is something.”
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 136





	Even dust was made to settle

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has been swirling around in my brain for a while and has finally taken shape. Title and lyrics are taken from “Sleeping at Last” by The Projectionist. English is not my mother tongue so sorry in advance for possible mistakes and poor writing.

_When I was young I fell in love with story,  
With the eleventh hour, with the blaze of glory.  
The theater lights dim and all goes quiet.  
In the darkest of rooms, light shines the brightest._

The Doctor doesn’t really drink.

She’ll have a glass of wine here and there but never to the point of getting drunk. So it comes as a surprise to the Master to find her curled up against the balcony’s back wall with a bottle in her hand. She’s far enough away from the lights that if he hadn’t been paying attention, he might have stepped on her.

“What are you doing down there?” he asks.

The Doctor’s gaze is slow to slide away from the sky and over to him and there’s a strange look in her eyes.

“Trying to be alone,” she says a bit slurred, before looking away from his face. “So go away.”

“Are you drunk?” he asks bluntly.

She looks steadily into his eyes, refusing to answer and the Master's white teeth gleam in the dark.

“Now _this_ is something.”

“Fuck off,” she growls, settling to stare out at the sky again.

He pauses. Looks at the way the Doctor is holding herself – bowed over, collapsed, exhausted.

“Fine,” he says, eyes darting over to the party. The guests look suitably distracted so he reaches down to scoop her in his arm. Her head snaps up, expression wary.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snarls, her eyes blazing with whatever fury had her so worked up in the first place.

“You can barely walk.” He observes, ignoring her struggles to free herself. “So, I’m taking you back to the Tardis. Now stop squirming or I’ll drop you”.

She shoots him a dark glare, her brows dipped unhappily.

“I don't need your help. I’m fine. I’m _perfectly_ fine _._ ”

“I can see that.” He snorts, heading back to the Tardis. When he steps through the still-open door, the console room is half-lit.

“I hope none of your pets is around.” It’s all he says as he carries her into her bedroom.

Too inebriated to care about not being able to keep up, the Doctor leans her head against the warmth of his shoulder.

“Do you….ever remember awful things?” She asks, so quietly that the Master isn’t sure she’s spoken at first. “Even things you think you’ve forgotten?”

“You know I do,” He says, laying her body on the blanket. 

“Does it ever go away?” She asks, voice raw and the Master sighs.

“Is this the reason you were drinking, or are you like this because you were drinking?”

“Lay down with me,” she hums, clinging to the Master as he tries to set her down on the bed.

"You did _not_ just ask me this," his eyes go wide. "How drunk exactly are you?"

The Doctor laughs, almost whole-heartedly.

“Come to bed,” she says, reaching for him while he takes off her boots.

“Ten minutes ago you wanted me to leave you on that balcony,” he says, trying to pry her fingers from his shirt. “Make up your mind.”

"Please," she says, "I don't – I don't want to be alone."

The Master blinks.

"Wha … what are you doing?" She stutters. The words are slurred, barely recognizable as human speech.

"Putting you to bed," he says, shooting her a glance from under his lashes. Her eyes are glassy and tear-filled but warm. With some effort and a bit of undignified manuvering, he finally manages to pull off her coat and her boots and spreads a blanket over her. 

"Go to sleep," he says, turning around to leave.

"Can't," she replies, sounding almost lucid. "Can't … can't stop thinking about it."

There's nothing the Master could say to make this any better, he has no comfort to offer. 

"How do you do it?" she says. "How do you… move on?"

"Don't," the Master says with a shake of his head. "This isn't a question I can answer for you. Especially not now. Not tonight." He turns to go, but her voice stops him. 

"I've never -"

He stills, looks back over his shoulder. "Never what?"

"Never loved anyone like you. I've never -"

"Christ _._ Stop. _Stop it._ " The Master shakes his head, stunned by the violent emotion running through him. He can't listen to this. "You need to _go to sleep_." 

"I told you, I can't." She swallows convulsively. "Maybe if – if you –" 

"No." 

With a surprisingly accurate aim, the Doctor reaches for him. Her fingers close around his wrist. " _Please_."

The Master freezes. 

The Doctor’s grip on his wrist isn't that strong, it would be easy to break. He'd only have to pull back his hand, turn around and leave the room – it’ll take just a few seconds for her to pass out in grief and exhaustion. It's not the physical hold the Doctor has on him that keeps him rooted to the spot, keeps him from shaking off the touch. 

"Please," She says, "I don't – I don't want to be alone."

And now she keeps looking at him, the hurt and grief plain on her face, and the Master finds himself incapable of refusing her.

He takes a deep breath. "All right, then." 

His eyes fall on a chair, and he tries to free his wrist from the Doctor’s grasp to reach for it and pull it close to the bed, but her fingers tighten around his wrist. 

The Master turns his head and stares at her. 

The Doctor tugs at his wrist, gently, a demand that is impossible to misunderstand. 

For a second, the Master wants to bolt.

Then something in him gives, and he nods. He swallows, hard.

The Doctor lets go of him but keeps watching his every move. She doesn't say anything as the Master walks over to the door to close it, guard what little privacy they have left. 

He returns to the bed and shrugs out of his coat, hangs it over the back of the chair, then pulls off his boots. The Doctor appears to be asleep as the Master comes to stand beside the bed, but then her eyes open. The Master stares at her, and despite his agreement just moments ago, he finds himself incapable of taking the final step. 

Moments pass by, and the Master gathers his courage. "Move over," he finally says, and to her credit, she tries, but between the alcohol and her clumsiness, she only manages to move a few inches.

With a sigh, the Master climbs onto the bed and starts pushing, shoving the Doctor out of the way, re-arranging her so that she’s on her back and he can lie down beside her. He pulls the blanket over them. He's not surprised when the Doctor immediately turns towards him, seeking contact, until she puts an arm around his chest and they're lying in a close embrace. 

How long has it been since they had last been this close? How long since he's felt her breathing, the raise and fall of her chest against his? 

"I don't know how you bear it," she whispers in the dark. "I don't know how you've managed to survive this." 

"Purpose," the Master says. "You find it, you cling to it. You don't let go of it, no matter what happens."

"Is it enough? This… _purpose_ … is it enough?"

"It has to be," the Master says. "There is nothing else."

"I don't know if I can live like that." Her voice is barely audible. "I don't know if I have it in me."

There's nothing he can say. The Doctor’s not a child, and the Master is not going to treat her like one by offering reassurance, empty words of consolation.

There's nothing to say that the Doctor doesn't already know, so he doesn't say anything. 

"This pain. It will never go away, will it?" Her voice comes from far away, she’s almost asleep.

The Master puts his hand on her shoulder, feels the warmth of her body under his palm. "Sleep," he says. "Rest."

"Don't leave me," she whispers. She clings to him in the dark until exhaustion finally takes its toll and her breath evens out in sleep.

The Master brushes some strands away from her face and finds himself holding on to her, incapable of doing anything else.

_We're leaving, we're leaving our shadows behind us now.  
We're leaving, we're leaving it all behind for now.  
But even dust was made to settle  
And if we're made of dust, then what makes us any different?_


End file.
